


Transit

by Robin_Fai



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:02:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24553576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin_Fai/pseuds/Robin_Fai
Summary: What if the events of Ride never happened? What if Morse moved on before Thursday found him?Sounds profound but really it's just a set up for angst and fluff.
Relationships: Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 12
Kudos: 45





	Transit

**Author's Note:**

> I promise I AM working on the finale of Dichotomy but I got a little distracted by a need for Morse/Jakes fluff. Now I've got it out of my system I can try and get back to focussing on that.

It had been six months. 

Six long months. 

Morse had thought he’d have sorted his life out by now, moved on from police-work and the traumas of prison. Instead he was now almost back where he started seven years before when he’d left the army. 

The cabin had been alright at first, an escape, a refuge. He’d gone there to forget. But all the whisky in the world couldn’t wash away his memories, couldn’t slow the cogs of his mind. 

In the end he’d had to come back and face the real world, but facing it alone had torn him to pieces and thrown him to the wind.

Perhaps things might have been different if someone had cared enough to come and find him. He’d had a dream one night that Thursday had turned up at the cabin and tried to talk him into coming home. He wondered what his subconscious had meant by ‘home’. Was it Oxford? The police? The Thursdays? They weren’t _his_ family. What was left of his own? Only Joyce. She cared certainly, but she had a husband now and they’d left the country. He wouldn’t count Gwen. And friends? No one had bothered to visit him in prison. No one except Jakes of course. 

That was a puzzle that haunted him regularly. Why Jakes? Joyce had called a few times but she hadn’t known what to say and he hadn’t wanted to burden her. He’d had a couple of letters from Max but he’d written about trivial matters, music and fishing, not the case, nor Thursday. No one else in the station had contacted him at all. He’d had to find out from a newspaper that Thursday had survived. 

It should have been a relief knowing that he was alive. Instead, when he saw that black and white photograph from the latest crime scene the Inspector was attending, it had felt like a physical blow to his core. He’d thought he was dead. He’d been grieving. Why had no one bothered to tell him?

Jakes had visited twice; in the first and second weeks Morse had been inside. The first visit had been bad. Jakes had no real news for him. Thursday was still in a critical condition. They hadn’t known what to say to one another. Still, he had been glad to see a familiar, if not necessarily ‘friendly’ face. 

The second visit had been far worse. Morse had known there was no hiding the colourful state his face was in from him, nor the way he limped. Jakes had been barred from the hospital and the case so he still couldn’t tell him anything more. Morse had found himself rendered almost mute from the pain of it all. After a painful pause Jakes had started talking incessantly about the minutiae of what was happening at the station. Everything from the robbery case he was working on to the colour of Strange’s tie that morning. He presumed it was an awkward reaction to the state Morse was in. The one thing he took from it was the rage on Jakes’ face when he first set eyes on him. No pity. Only righteous anger. He held on to that for the rest of the time he was in prison.

His release had been chaotic. He’d gone from being told every day for over two months that he was certain to be found guilty, to being released without so much as a word of explanation. They’d collected him from his cell, thrust a load of paperwork at him to sign, told him he couldn’t discuss the details of the case for fifty years, and then dumped him out on the street in only the clothes he’d been wearing that fateful night.

Nothing but those clothes. Nothing. His warrant card had been taken off him and he’d had nothing else with him that night. A search through the pockets of his coat had revealed a few loose coins. Enough for a phone call.

He could have called the station, or Max, or Joyce as she hadn’t left yet at that time, but there was something stopping him. He wasn’t exactly angry yet, more empty, devoid of any real belief in hope, or love, or friendship. A cold and careless bitterness. The kind of detached fury a drowning man feels for the ocean.

So he called an old friend. Someone from before his life had fallen to pieces yet again. As if somehow fitting himself back into their set could erase all that came in between. He hid among overbearing stands of trees and lost himself amidst vast expanses of water. He tried to pull that old upper class scholar mask back on, (drink the champagne, make ‘connections’,) but in the end it fit just as badly as it had before. 

He packed his bags and moved on. A month here, a month there. No matter where he went he didn’t fit. So he went back to Oxford. Why did he always end up back where he started?

Stepping off the train onto those familiar streets he felt just as lost as he had when he’d got back from army service, discharge papers in his pocket, bag in hand. Except this time he had two suitcases. 

Two suitcases, and nowhere to go was what made this time different. Two suitcases were a lot heavier than one small army issue bag, but they didn’t really feel like they amounted to the whole of a life. Back then he could have gone to his family in Lincolnshire. It would have been awful, but it had been an option. That door had closed with the passing of his father and Joyce’s emigration. 

So many other doors he’d closed since then marked the corridors of his life. 

Back then he’d wandered listlessly for a week before signing up with the police. What would he do this time? What would they say if he casually walked into Cowley station right now? Was he still suspended? Or had the investigation gone ahead without him and he’d been kicked out already?

There was a room in a hostel near the station. He paid and left his cases before heading into town. Whatever grand ideas he might have about the path of his life, he was going to need another job very soon. Tutoring in the other towns and cities he had passed through had kept him fed and a roof of one sort or another over his head, but funds were perilously low now.

…

He didn’t know what it was that called him to this part of town. It wasn’t exactly an area that meant anything to him. His aimless wandering hadn’t brought him any answers so far. Maybe it never would.

He was so engrossed in staring at the ground as he paced along the pavement that he didn’t notice how quiet the street had suddenly become. No cars passed, and there was no one else walking in the area. It was the silence that caught his attention in the end. It was unnaturally still, like Oxford was waiting for something to happen. Morse stopped and looked around. Something was wrong.

An arm shot out and around his chest, pulling him into a dark alley. Although to call it an alley was a bit of an exaggeration. It was barely more than a ventilation gap and certainly not really designed for two people, no matter how slim they both were.

“Wha-”

The figure that had grabbed him pressed him face first against the rough brick of the wall and clamped a hand over his mouth. The smell of cigarettes overwhelmed his senses. He could taste it on his tongue.

“Shhh!” The man hissed insistently in his ear.

Morse struggled free of his hold and pivoted to flip himself around so he was facing his captor.

The last thing he had expected to see was a familiar face. The other man pinned him against the wall once more, blocking his exit. He turned his head and for the first time looked at Morse properly. Morse registered a moment of shock equal to what he had just felt.

“Morse?!”

“Peter?!” He hadn’t meant to use his first name like that but the whole bizarre situation had torn his carefully ordered thoughts apart.

Jakes gave something like a startled gasp, his mouth slightly open in shock.

They were pressed together tightly, Jakes’ arms resting on the wall on either side of Morse’s face. If there was one thing Morse hadn’t expected from taking a walk around Oxford it was ending up trapped between solid brick and the undeniably hard body of Peter Jakes. The moment dragged out between them. They were so close he could feel Jakes’ chest rising and falling, feel the air fluttering against his face. He could feel his jagged heartbeat. He could feel more besides that...

Jakes’ face coloured and he tried to pull his body back slightly but there was no denying Morse had felt his arousal. There was no hiding it really when they were this close. 

“Jakes, what...?” He trailed off, not sure how to broach the subject.

Jakes looked away sharply. Even in the dim of the space Morse could see how red his face was. “You already know I fancy you.” He muttered.

Morse frowned in confusion. Yes, Peter had made a pass at him, but that had been when he first transferred to Oxford. “I rather thought you’d got over that.”

Jakes met his gaze again but then quickly turned his head again to stare at the opening to the street. “Whatever gave you that daft idea?”

“Well, the way you treated me from then on really.” He grumbled. 

Jakes looked back at him. He stared at Morse for a long moment a slight frown creasing his forehead. “I am really sorry about that. Honestly. I… I could make up excuses but they would be just that. After that night… when you found me… well, I thought about a lot of things. I should’ve come with you. Everything before that... I’ve wanted to apologise to you for my behaviour since then.” Jakes said eventually. “We’ve been looking for you, me and Inspector that is. Heard you were out by Lake Silence but you’d moved on by the time we got there. I kept telling him you’d just turn up at a crime scene one day, but he’s been worried.” 

Morse didn’t know what to think, but sincerity was plain on Peter’s face. They _had_ been looking for him after all. Had he got everything all wrong again? He decided to change the subject. “Why are we in an alley, and why are we whispering?”

Jakes looked around like he had just remembered where he was. It was such a ridiculous reflex that for the first time in months Morse felt like laughing. 

“Working a case. Suspect got away. We cleared the area thinking he’d have to come out sometime soon. I got cut off from the others.” Jakes frowned again and tried to surreptitiously wriggle away from Morse. “How did _you_ get through the boundary?”

Morse hadn’t noticed any boundary. He’d been too lost in thought. He shrugged. His attention was suddenly drawn to Peter’s shoulder. There was a bloom of red creeping onto his shirt. He reached out instinctively to touch it, head tilted, curious. His fingertips came away blood red. Peter flinched.

“You’re hurt!” He swallowed back the wave of nausea that the sight of blood brought up. Too many bad memories washed over him. The feel of a bullet through his leg. The spread of blood around a victim’s head. The red that stained Thursday’s chest as he fell.

“Yeah, well, he got in a bit of swipe before he got away from me.” Jakes tilted his head to reveal a deep gash to the side of his neck. 

“You need treatment. That’s a nasty cut.” Morse whispered, his voice rough with the fear he didn’t want to show. He swallowed again. He needed to look away. Why was the air so thin in this damn alley?

Jakes raised an eyebrow at him as if to say _‘well, obviously, but there’s an armed and dangerous man out there right now.’_

The air was getting harder and harder to drag into his lungs. Morse felt the ground sway lightly beneath him.

“Morse? Morse!” Peter whispered urgently, pressing a steadying hand against his shoulder.

They were too close again. In his efforts to keep Morse upright Jakes was once more pressed up against him. 

“Sorry, I forgot about your blood phobia thing.” Jakes whispered, so close to his face. His breath was warm. The press of his body reassuring. 

Morse took a slow breath and felt some of his composure return. Peter’s heart was beating even faster than his. Their eyes locked onto one another. Why had he never noticed how kind Peter’s eyes were. There was such a sincere gentleness there that belied the front he was always putting on. Peter’s lips flickered in a tentative smile. He really was rather beautiful when he smiled. 

Morse didn’t know what made him do it, but the next thing he knew he had closed the gap between them, pressing his lips to Peter’s. 

Peter made a startled sound, but when Morse didn’t pull away he returned the kiss eagerly. Strong arms wrapped around his body, pulling him closer still to Peter. He hadn’t thought it possible for them to get any closer. Warmth filled his veins and he pressed his own arms free and around Peter’s frame. An unexpectedly gentle hand was running through his hair. Distantly he thought how he could come to love that sensation.

The sound of a throat clearing at the entrance to the alleyway had them both jumping apart. Or it would have done if there had been any space for that. They managed to achieve a narrow gap between their bodies, each pressed up against one side of the constrictive space.

“I know you kept saying he’d turn up eventually, Sergeant, but this was not exactly what I was expecting you meant by that,” said an acerbic voice. 

Morse looked over. Max DeBryn was a silhouette against the light of the street behind him, but Morse could see his raised eyebrows as clear as day. His pulse was thumping in his ears and he was pretty sure his face was now as red as it could go. He tried to speak but no words came out. Peter was investigating his shoes.

“The Inspector is looking for you.” Max said to Jakes. “They found your man already. There was some concern you’d collapsed somewhere from blood loss. I’d suggest you head on round the corner and reassure your DI that you’re alive-” Max paused for a moment and looked pointedly at Morse, “-and well before he comes around here himself.” He turned and left the pair in the alley.

Jakes looked up, nervous, and met Morse’s gaze once more. “I think we’ve got a lot to talk about. If you’re willing that is?”

“As long as you’re not going to start on about Strange’s ties again then I’m in.” Morse said, once again struck by the sudden and entirely inappropriate urge to laugh. 

Peter’s smile lit up his whole face. It really was beautiful.

“Are you going to come along? The Old Man’s face will be a picture.”

Was he? Was that where this had all been leading? Back to the start all over again. Get off a train in Oxford once more and straight back to the police. Maybe it wasn’t so much like he had wound up back where he started, but more that he was getting another go at something that had meant so much to him? 

He nodded his agreement and Peter gave him another brilliant smile. Together they walked out of the darkness and onto the street. Out into the light. Out into another new future.

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to just be pure 'trapped in a small space Morse/Jakes fluff' but my brain went full on angst mode first. Oops.
> 
> I'm going to take a moment to say sorry to the Bixby shippers for sort of erasing him here. I like that episode very much but I wanted to see how things might move in another direction if it didn't happen (along with most of the events of series 3). Consider them delayed if you like. Things spring to life (death) again now Morse is back.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Smolder](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24893908) by [EAU1636](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EAU1636/pseuds/EAU1636)




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